“Well, like I said, ’bout everybody in this town knows her boat, how it looks from close and far. We know the shape of the boat and the figure she cuts sittin’ in the stern, tall, thin like that. A very particular shape.”
“A particular shape. So anybody with this same shape, any person who was tall and thin in this type of boat would have looked like Miss Clark. Correct?”
“I guess somebody else coulda looked like her, but we get to know boats and their owners real good, you know, being out there all the time.”
“But, Mr. Miller, may I remind you, this is a murder trial. It cannot get more serious than this, and in these cases we have to be certain. We can’t go by shapes or forms that are seen from sixty yards away in the dark. So, please can you tell the court you are certain the person you saw on the night of October 29 to October 30, 1969, was Miss Clark?”
“Well, no, I can’t be completely sure. Never said I could be completely sure it was her. But I’m pretty—”
“That will be all, Mr. Miller. Thank you.”
Judge Sims asked, “Redirect, Eric?”
From his seat, Eric asked, “Hal, you testified that you’ve been seeing and recognizing Miss Clark in her boat for at least three years. Tell me, have you ever thought you saw Miss Clark in her boat from a distance and then once you got closer, you discovered that it wasn’t Miss Clark after all? Has that ever happened?”
“No, not once.”
“Not once in three years?”
“Not once in three years.”
“Your Honor, the State rests.”
52.
Three Mountains Motel
1970
Judge Sims entered the courtroom and nodded at the defense table. “Mr. Milton, are you ready to call your first witness for the defense?”
“I am, Your Honor.”
“Proceed.”
After the witness was sworn and seated, Tom said, “Please state your name and what you do in Barkley Cove.” Kya raised her head enough to see the short, elderly woman with the purplish-white hair and tight perm who years ago asked her why she always came alone to the grocery. Perhaps she was shorter and her curls tighter, but she looked remarkably the same. Mrs. Singletary had seemed nosey and bossy, but she had given Kya the net Christmas stocking with the blue whistle inside the winter after Ma left. It was all the Christmas Kya had.
“I’m Sarah Singletary, and I clerk at the Piggly Wiggly market in Barkley Cove.”
“Sarah, is it correct that from your cash register within the Piggly Wiggly, you can see the Trailways bus stop?”
“Yes, I can see it clearly.”
“On October 28 of last year, did you see the defendant, Miss Catherine Clark, waiting at the bus stop at 2:30 P.M.?”
“Yes, I saw Miss Clark standing there.” At this, Sarah glanced at Kya and remembered the little girl coming barefoot into the market for so many years. No one would ever know, but before Kya could count, Sarah had given the child extra change—money she had to take from her own purse to balance the register. Of course, Kya was dealing with small sums to start with, so Sarah contributed only nickels and dimes, but it must have helped.
“How long did she wait? And did you actually see her step onto the 2:30 P.M. bus?”
“She waited about ten minutes, I think. We all saw her buy her ticket from the driver, give him her suitcase, and step onto the bus. It drove away, and she was most definitely inside.”
“And I believe you also saw her return two days later on October 30 on the 1:16 P.M. bus. Is that correct?”
“Yes, two days later, a little after 1:15 in the afternoon, I looked up as the bus stopped, and there was Miss Clark stepping off it. I pointed her out to the other checkout ladies.”
“Then what did she do?”
“She walked to the wharf, got in her boat, and headed south.”
“Thank you, Sarah. That will be all.”
Judge Sims asked, “Any questions, Eric?”
“No, Your Honor, I have no questions. In fact, I see from the witness list that the defense intends to call several townspeople to testify that Miss Clark got on and off the Trailways bus on the dates and times Mrs. Singletary has stated. The prosecution does not refute this testimony. Indeed, it is consistent with our case that Miss Clark traveled on those buses at those times and, if it please the court, it is not necessary to hear from other witnesses on this matter.”
“All right. Mrs. Singletary, you can step down. What about you, Mr. Milton? If the prosecution accepts the fact that Miss Clark got on the 2:30 bus on October 28, 1969, and returned at about 1:16 on October 30, 1969, do you need to call other witnesses to this effect?”
“No, Your Honor.” His face appeared calm, but Tom swore inside. Kya’s alibi of being out of town at the time of Chase’s death was one of the strongest points for the defense. But Eric had successfully diluted the alibi simply by accepting it, even stating that he didn’t need to hear testimony that Kya traveled to and from Greenville during the day. It didn’t matter to the prosecution’s case because they claimed Kya had returned to Barkley at night and committed the murder. Tom had foreseen the risk but thought it crucial that the jury hear testimony, to visualize Kya leaving town in daylight and not returning until after the incident. Now, they’d think her alibi wasn’t important enough even to be confirmed.
“Noted. Please proceed with your next witness.”
Bald and fubsy, his coat buttoned tight against a round belly, Mr. Lang Furlough testified that he owned and operated the Three Mountains Motel in Greenville and that Miss Clark had stayed at the motel from October 28 until October 30, 1969.
Kya detested listening to this oily-haired man, who she never thought she’d see again, and here he was talking about her as though she weren’t present. He explained how he had shown her to her motel room but failed to mention he had lingered too long. Kept thinking of reasons to stay in her room until she opened the door, hinting for him to leave. When Tom asked how he could be sure of Miss Clark’s comings and goings from the motel, he chuckled and said she was the kind of woman men notice. He added how strange she was, not knowing how to use the telephone, walking from the bus station with a cardboard suitcase, and bringing her own bagged dinner.
“Mr. Furlough, on the next night, that being October 29, 1969, the night Chase Andrews died, you worked at the reception desk all night. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“After Miss Clark returned to her room at ten P.M. after dinner with her editor, did you see her leave again? At any time during the night of October 29 or the early-morning hours of October 30, did you see her leave or return to her room?”
“No. I was there all night and I never saw her leave her room. Like I said, her room was directly across from the reception counter, so I would have seen her leave.”
“Thank you, Mr. Furlough, that’s all. Your witness.”
After several minutes of cross-examination, Eric continued. “Okay, Mr. Furlough, so far we have you leaving the reception area altogether to walk to your apartment twice, use the restroom, and return; the pizza boy bringing pizza; you paying him, et cetera; four guests checking in, two checking out; and in between all that, you completed your receipts account. Now I’d submit, Mr. Furlough, that during all that commotion, there were plenty of times that Miss Clark could have quietly walked out of her room, quickly crossed the street, and you would never have seen her. Isn’t that entirely possible?”
“Well, I guess it’s possible. But I never saw a thing. I didn’t see her leave her room that night—is what I’m saying.”
“I understand that, Mr. Furlough. And what I’m saying is that it’s very possible that Miss Clark left her room, walked to the bus station, bused to Barkley Cove, murdered Chase Andrews, and returned to her room, and you never saw her because you were very busy doing your job. No more questions.”
AFTER THE LUNCH RECESS, just as everyone was settled and the judge had taken his seat, Scupper stepped inside the courtroom. Tate turned to see his father, still in his overalls and yellow marine boots, walking down the aisle. Scupper had not attended the trial because of his work, he’d said, but mostly because his son’s long attachment to Miss Clark confounded him. It seemed Tate had never had feelings for any other girl, and even as a grown, professional man, he still loved this strange, mysterious woman. A woman now accused of murder.
Then, that noon, standing on his boat, nets pooled around his boots, Scupper breathed out heavily. His face blazed with shame as he realized that he—like some of the ignorant villagers—had been prejudiced against Kya because she had grown up in the marsh. He remembered Tate proudly showing him Kya’s first book on shells and how Scupper himself was taken aback by her scientific and artistic prowess. He had bought himself a copy of each of her books but hadn’t mentioned that to Tate. What bullshit.
He was so proud of his son, how he had always known what he wanted and how to achieve it. Well, Kya had done the same against much bigger odds.
How could he not be there for Tate? Nothing mattered except supporting his son. He dropped the net at his feet, left the boat wallowing against the pier, and walked directly to the courthouse.